Doug Allyn - v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. More chance of David avoiding a dirty weekend at the Ritz than swerving to avoid a goat. Came in useful though.”

“So he faked his death to pocket the syndicate money?”

“You got it, Joe,” she said admiringly.

“Must’ve taken some doing,” said Joe dubiously. “I mean, even in Greece there must be regulations...”

“Sure there are. But the cousin who’s his closest relative over there happens to be a police chief out in the sticks. Just the guy to know all the forms and formalities as well as all the fiddles. Wait till the goat’s beginning to pong a bit so no one wants to get too close to the coffin, screw it down, and send it home. Easy.”

Joe pondered this, conscious of the woman’s eyes upon him. He didn’t have the kind of detective mind which made connections like a digital exchange, but put a goat in his path and he’d fall over it.

He said, “Easy, yeah. But not so easy as fixing a fake funeral in Greece. Lot less risky too. And why’d he come back himself? And how come if he faked the accident he’s up to his hams in plaster? And why did he cancel the funeral today? And why’s he hobbling round here trying to kill people? And just what the shoot are you doing here, Mrs. Levine?”

“Mandy,” she said. “Call me Mandy. I like to be on first-name terms with people I do business with.”

“We’re doing business?” said Joe. “Have I missed something?”

She smiled and said, “Come on, Joe. No need to play quite so dumb, even when you’ve got the face for it.”

She really did believe he knew what was going on. It was quite flattering. He turned away from her so that the bewilderment on his face didn’t show quite so bright. And he found himself looking into the coffin again... the torn silk lining... the stuffing oozing out... powdery, white... what kind of stuffing did these Greek undertakers use anyway?

He licked his finger, touched it to the powder, tasted the grains on his tongue. They said it helped you see things clearly. It certainly worked for Joe Sixsmith.

“Smack,” he said. “That’s what he went to buy.”

“That’s right. Greece has got borders like a lace curtain. Most of the stuff pouring in from Pakistan and the East hits Europe there. But moving it on to where the big markets are is a lot harder, especially for the small-time operators. So David set up a deal to pay his cousin what was a small fortune in his terms, and buy enough shit to make Arnie and his chums a large fortune in their terms. It looked an all-round winner. Only David fancied a bit more than his commission. In fact, the lot, not just the money but the sell-on profit. And he could only get that by selling the stuff here.”

“So he had to come back. And he used his own coffin to carry the heroin. Smart,” said Joe, with genuine admiration. “But what went wrong?”

Mandy laughed.

“Apart from you cancelling his ticket, you mean?” she said. “Silly bugger got himself involved in a real accident here before he could arrange for a bit of quiet meditation by the dear deceased’s coffin and remove the shit. He realized last night he was in no state to come and collect for himself, so he rang me at the club. I nearly had an accident too when I heard his voice, I tell you.”

“Why’d he ring you?” asked Joe.

She smiled and gave him her saucy wink.

“Like I said, we were quite close once,” she said.

“You didn’t think of telling Arnie he was alive?”

“Why would I think of that? He’d just want to sort out Dave, and Dave’s not such a gent he wouldn’t let Arnie know what we’d been up to before he went under. No, keep stumm seemed best. I went to see him. Couldn’t do anything last night, I was meeting Arnie later. So we fixed for him to cancel this morning, then he discharged himself from hospital this evening and I brought him along here. Don’t think he trusted me by myself. He was sitting in my car, must have seen you coming in after me and thought he’d better hobble to the rescue, poor bastard.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re going to miss him.”

“A bit. But I’ve mourned for him once, haven’t I? And that’s enough for any man. Question now is, what are we going to do, Joe?”

“No question,” said Joe. “I’m going to go out of here and ring the police.”

“No,” she said, hefting the crutch. “Don’t think so. Anyone rings the police, it’s me.”

“Sorry?”

“Mobile in the car. I go out there, say I think something terrible’s happening. Got this call from David asking me to pick him up at the hospital. Didn’t know what to make of it. He asked me to drive him round here, saying he’d explain everything. And we arrived to find the door already open. He went in. I heard a scuffle and rushed in to find you here, the coffin open, and David dead upon the floor. Think about it, Joe. Man just out of hospital against advice, in plaster and on crutches, gets cancelled by fully fit, highly qualified P.I. What kind of questions would that make the police ask, eh?”

Joe guessed that the main kind of question it would make the local force ask was, what the shoot did she mean by “highly qualified”?

But qualified or not, he knew a deal when he was being offered one.

“What’s the alternative?” he asked.

“Well, the way I see it, Joe, is, we’ve got a coffin with contents all legally certified as the body of David Tallas, deceased. And we’ve got the body of David Tallas, deceased.”

It took his breath away, which he didn’t mind as it gave a respite from dead goat.

“And the stuff in the coffin?”

“Plenty of room for both of them,” said Mandy.

“I didn’t mean the goat.”

“Oh, the shit. Straight split? Or I’ll take the lot, sell it, and then split the divvy with you?”

Joe considered for a moment.

There was a lot to be said for not getting mixed up with the police, some of whom would be glad of a chance to think the worst of him. Also, once it got public, however it panned out, he was going to end up as the man who’d made Arnie Levine unhappy, which he didn’t mind doing so long as Arnie took his unhappiness to jail. But there was no offence he’d committed here.

He said, “You may be on to something, Mandy. Hang about.”

He turned to the canvas tool bag on the workbench. She’d come well equipped. He took out an old-fashioned auger, drew a deep breath, and leaning over the coffin, began punching holes in the lining.

She watched approvingly for a while, then approval turned to puzzlement as he ran his tiny torch beam along the shelves which lined the wall till he saw what he wanted.

And puzzlement turned to horror as he unscrewed the top off a carboy of formalin and began to pour it into the coffin.

“What the hell...!”

“Nice mix,” he said. “Mainline this and you’ll get a high that will last forever!”

For a second he thought she was going to come at him and possibly hope that the coffin would take two. Then she shook her head and began to laugh.

“Okay,” she said. “Do I take it this means I’ve got half a deal?”

“Why not?” he said. “I don’t approve of wife beating.”

“Arnie got wind of any of this, beating would be the easy option,” she said grimly. “You want to take his feet? Okay. Lift!”

Five minutes later they were on their way out. As Joe locked the door he asked. “How’d you get in anyway?”

She raised the canvas bag in which she was carrying her tools and lantern.

“Skeletons,” she said. “Fitting, huh?”

“Don’t get stopped,” warned Joe. “Going equipped’s a crime.”

“Hope not, Joe,” she laughed. “I always go equipped. Like a lift?”